


Diving Bell

by LordBlumiere



Category: Original Work
Genre: Box Boy universe, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, Human Trafficking, I'm Sorry, Multi, Other, Whump, and also to the other people who inspired this, with much thanks to sweetwhumpandhellacomf and shameless-whumper on tumblr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-25 01:07:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22183696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordBlumiere/pseuds/LordBlumiere
Summary: "I've got the sinking feeling that I never can go home."Slavery is legal again, though the companies in charge all claim it's completely consensual. You can sign yourself over, you see, if your life seems hopeless, or you need a second chance. Aran doesn't believe a word of it when people start going missing, thinking it's just taking advantage of the lost and desperate to get big bucks from the rich and famous. But they start having dreams of themselves in the position of a Box Pet, and soon they're struggling through the training, trying to keep their memories as they lose more and more of themselves to the Facility's machinations. The only thing keeping them from sinking is the thought of seeing Sandhya's face again...
Relationships: Original Character(s)/Original Character(s)
Kudos: 2





	1. Prologue

Change always starts quietly.

They see it in their friend's eyes, first. The exhaustion of a life not lived - that they know well; it's been a long time since they first heard the word "depression" on the lips of a therapist. Her expression, though, speaks of the deepest depths, and they worry. They hold her hands as she cries against their shoulder, and they try to whisper comfort.

The next week, she is gone. Everyone notices, of course - they don't have to worry that they're losing their mind over this one. Soon, however, the search goes quiet, her name disappearing from the records of missing people. They search the obituaries, and there is nothing. The only hint they find is on the university corkboard: a new study, paying well, aimed at anyone who feels hopeless. February 17th, 10 AM, all welcome.

February 17th was the day she disappeared.

They hunt down the source of the study, spending hours on a Google dive, articles about a new company, Healing Box, proposing an experimental treatment for mental health and poverty, or "anyone tired of their mundane life". Every site, every news story, every page seems to tell the same story. Of course there's nothing to worry about - this is meant to help people. Again, the search goes quiet.

Months pass. Strange news headlines begin to appear in the papers; they think someone's mixed up headings from the Onion with headings from the Sun. They can't help but laugh and shake their heads - a conspiracy theorist must have gotten into the press, what else would explain the sudden rise of thinking like the human pet guy? All they do is put in a complaint on the paper's site, then go about their day.

But they still have the Healing Box site up on their computer.

In the fall, they hear the same chattering amongst everyone at the university. The story is simple: a new set of laws has been proposed, and April Fool's Day is a bit too late for them to be a joke. Overturn the laws against slavery, but make it a conscious choice for the slaves. Set up buildings for people with no other light in sight to turn themselves in. Start training programs, and sell the results. And of course, receive financial support from the rich and powerful who are obviously lobbying to get these bills passed.

Of course they don't believe it at first. It sounds like a joke, like a dark web conspiracy. They laugh it off, everyone looking at them like they have two heads. "Haven't you seen?" is the question that pops up again, again, again. "Look at the Healing Box site; it's changed." Healing Box is for helping people, they argue, and again are told to check, check, look again.

They do, but not immediately. Government moves slow, after all; even if any of this is true, they think, it won't pass without a majority. This is supposed to be for the people. The rich and famous hardly count.

The site hovers in their tabs like a ghost the day the announcement comes. A cheery young man announces to every class they go to: there is nothing wrong with people needing a change, is there? There's nothing wrong with people needing a new life, a new chance. Besides, it's all very legal now; nobody can force you to sign yourself away, but the option is always there. He's wearing a Healing Box pin.

That night, they finally check the tab again. A quick refresh, and the whole site layout has changed - now, a streamlined storefront. Photos of smiling faces, people with blank eyes kneeling at the feet of those in suits, and -

They see their friend, then. It's one of those sliding advertisements; "click through to read Morgan's (her name wasn't Morgan, it was never Morgan) story now!". Shaken, hand over their mouth, they click through, thinking they're dreaming, thinking this must all be a cruel joke, that someone's fucking with them. Someone's trying to pull a Truman Show on them. They have to be.

The article isn't even short. The girl they remember - Amelie - doesn't even seem to shine through, but there's so many pictures of 'Morgan' that they know it has to be her. Every second word, she fawns over her 'master', over the man who - the only word they can find is owns - her. It reads like an article from another planet every time they go back to it, sleepless, holding themselves, half-crying, half-laughing. Someone wrote this to fuck with them. They're dreaming. They'll wake up, and the last months will have been a lie; Amelie will be back in class, and they won't have to think about this ever again.

They go to sleep, and dream of their head in someone's lap, hearing "good boy" over and over.


	2. One

“My mother decided it would be a good idea to get someone to help around the house,” Marcellus tells them, his face a mask. For a moment, they try and read into his emotions, but it’s only a second before the facade falls and he looks miserable, his head meeting the table in front of them. “She’s, like, fifty? And I can’t see why she thinks that she can even  _ afford _ this, first off… She’s barely getting by as it is on her disability cheques. And… don’t you think it’s weird how this passed so quickly?”

They don’t answer, for a minute, staring blankly ahead at the whiteboard near the front of the lecture hall. The dreams keep coming - literally every night for a week, now, they’ve been keeping track - and it’s exhausting them enough that they don’t know why they’re coming to class, much less trying to reason how these new laws even got through. Eventually, they answer with little more than a helpless shrug.

“Dunno,” they say, meeting Marcellus’ eyes. He flinches, and they can tell their exhaustion is obvious. “Okay, yeah, it  _ is _ weird, but…” They trail off, picking at a scab on their arm as they finally pick up the train of thought. “...once the US and China got everything going, I guess it was just a matter of time, huh?”

Marcellus visibly cringes. “Yeah, well, I didn’t think it would reach up here,” he says. “We’re supposed to be the  _ polite _ and  _ nice _ ones. Not… not people who think that fucking  _ slavery _ is okay again! It’s the 21st century, Aran. Things like this should have been left behind a  _ long _ time ago.”

Aran goes back to their staring, and Marcellus gives up. They’re grateful, inwardly. Their nights have either been filled with the dreams (they never see the person’s face) or too much research (there’s so many companies; they can’t all have popped up overnight); the dark circles under their eyes are a testament. Frankly, they’d rather not talk to anyone anymore - too dangerous to get attached, when anyone could just up and disappear, when checking obituaries has suddenly become  _ useless. _ Everyone that doesn’t show up to class anymore seems to be a new casualty of Healing Box, or Sundoll, or, or--

Class starts, and Aran doesn’t retain  _ any _ information. They walk out in a haze. Ariel’s gone now, and Connor hasn’t showed up in about three days. Normally, they would have thought sickness, but not any more. Frankly, they think, the ‘consensual’ argument seems to be a way to cover these companies’ asses should something happen that can’t be accounted for. In a year, the obituaries will fill with the corpses of ‘accidents’.

Again, they’re accosted by someone handing out pamphlets in the hall. “You look exhausted!” the heckler chirps, and Aran just grunts, looking up at the too-cheery face of a very blonde, very blue-eyed woman. It feels like looking into the face of every Hollywood movie they’ve ever seen.

“I  _ am _ exhausted.” Wrong answer.

“Oh, I know that feeling,” the woman coos, and Aran scrunches up their nose, crossing their arms. _Not like_ ** _that,_** they think, but it’s too late and they’re getting their arms filled with information about _another_ company that’s sprung up in the wake of Healing Box and its ilk’s success (it’s _too soon_ , too soon for it to be so sudden) and getting told about how they’ll ‘never feel exhausted again!’ and ‘don’t you want a better life for yourself than this?’ and _oh, god,_ they can’t fucking _stand_ this.

Aran throws the papers back in the woman’s face.

“I am  _ exhausted _ because people like  _ you _ keep showing up and make the desperate feel like they have to  _ hand themselves over, _ ” they hiss, and the woman looks shocked, her hand going to her chest. “This is fucking  _ ridiculous, _ there’s a reason therapy and food banks were invented and we  _ stopped _ making people slaves--”

“Aran!”

The woman is clearly relieved when Aran is pulled away by a taller and bigger girl.

“Sandhya…” Aran groans, shoving their face into the self-same girl’s chest. The gesture is met with a warm, soothing hug, a hug that they gratefully accept, smooshing themselves closer against her. “You’re literally all of my impulse control…”

Sandhya laughs, a gentle, warming sound. “Come eat with me,” she says, and Aran looks up at her smiling face, nodding. Nothing can be that bad when she’s around, they think. For all intents and purposes, she’s the only person they dare to trust anymore; everyone else seems lost in one way or another in this madness surrounding the new laws, but discussions with her don’t turn to that. They can forget with her. That’s all they need.

The cafeteria is filled with people talking about exactly what Aran expected. Sandhya is careful to nudge them out of the way of the worst conversations, for which they’re more than grateful. Sitting down with them and snuggling into their side, they hardly touch their food, content to hear them talk about a show they don’t even watch, needing the distraction more than anything now that the world seems to have gone topsy-turvy in their eyes. Their eyes that slip closed easily, letting them snooze peacefully against Sandhya until she shakes them gently.

“Hey,” she says, and Aran looks up, bleary, blinking.

“Did I fall asleep?” Nod. “Oh. Did I snore?” Nod again. “Sorry.”

Sandhya laughs. Aran blushes. “Shoosh,” she says, pressing a fond kiss to Aran’s head. “You should eat. You look like hell. Too many late nights again?”

“Too many late nights, too many of the same dream,” Aran replies. Sandhya cringes, already knowing - Aran has told her every single time. “Is it… I feel like it’s an innate desire, now, and I can’t… I hate that my mind’s turned to  _ this _ to cope. What kind of person does that make me?”

“Normal, I think.” Sandhya takes Aran’s hand, squeezing. It’s comforting, Aran thinks, sighing slowly out their nose. “I don’t think  _ anyone _ was prepared for this. Your brain’s dealing with it subconsciously; dreams are the only way it knows how to process something so  _ huge. _ We’re not made for thoughts like these.”

Aran doesn’t want to leave, but when they look at their phone, it’s almost time for their next class. They look up at Sandhya helplessly before picking up their lunch (it’s cold now) and stuffing it into their bag. “I love you,” they say, and they get that beautiful,  _ beautiful _ laugh in response, their spirits soaring high as they leave. Nothing can be  _ that _ bad, they think, when Sandhya’s around.

The walk to class, however, gets dizzying quickly. Have to sit down, have to sit down, they think, slumping against a wall and panting, holding their head. Something is wrong. Something feels  _ wrong _ . They don’t get much time to think about it, their body beginning to slump like a puppet with strings cut.

Their last thought is a cry for help.


	3. Chapter 3

Natalie thinks their eyes look strangely blank.

She’s seen this before, of course - it’s not a surprise; these people are _hopeless_ and are practically _begging_ for a better life. They all look tired, with dark circles and bitter laughs and shaking hands as they sign their lives over. Seeing another person looking so dead-eyed shouldn’t be new; she’s been working at the handover centre long enough.

But Aran, as they wrote on the top of the paper, looks different. Natalie can’t quite place what’s off about this one as opposed to the others. Everything they write is logical, they look tired enough, their body slumps like everyone else’s - so _what is it?_

It takes a minute, but she realizes. Aran hasn’t even said a word since they came in. Everyone else _talks,_ at least, and if they can’t talk they sign, and if they can’t sign they at least try and communicate somehow. Aran’s done none of these things, and Natalie is tempted to grab the paperwork right out from under them, to tell them to _go home and sleep it off,_ to give them a chance to think straight before their whole life is handed over. But, she remembers, she’s not allowed to do that. She’s not allowed to try and talk anyone out of this, the supervisor in charge of her training had said; these people are ready and willing to sign themselves over, so why stop them when they’ve made up their minds?

Natalie stares at Aran as they continue the paperwork, reading it over with those dead, dead eyes. She swallows.

“This is what you want to do, yes?” It’s not trying to stop them. “You’ve done your research on Healing Box? We’re very thorough; I think you can probably tell by everything in the papers here.”

Aran doesn’t answer. Natalie looks around - there’s no cameras in this room, at least none that she can see. Then again, she thinks, that probably doesn’t mean anything. But she’d rather get _fired_ than have to deal with watching _this_.

“Aran…” Natalie puts her hand over theirs, and they jolt as if stunned by a taser. Their eyes snap to hers, and it’s as if a veil has been lifted, a gasp of air practically thrust out of their throat.

“Where am I?” Aran asks, looking around the room quickly, and Natalie can almost _see_ the second their heart sinks. She _knew_ something was wrong!

“You’re at the local Healing Box Handover,” she replies, trying to put on her best customer service smile. Aran is clearly horrified, but before they can speak, Natalie grabs the papers, tearing them down the centre. “And I can _tell_ you don’t want to be here. You shouldn’t have come; I think someone’s got it out for you.”

Aran swallows heavily, a lump so clearly in their throat. Natalie isn’t much of a hugger, but she wants to hug them now. “I’m… I’m going home,” Aran says, standing up from the chair, but they almost crumple to the ground just as soon as they try. In seconds, Natalie’s around the side of the desk, picking them up, worry shooting through her gaze.

“At least rest for a moment,” she pleads, only to get a desperate look in return.

“I don’t know what’s going on, and I don’t want any part of it,” Aran begs. “I just want to go home--I don’t want to think about any of this!”

Natalie thinks, for a moment, that she’s chosen the wrong profession.

She doesn’t have much time to think about it. A calming voice comes on over the speakers in the handover room, a voice she recognizes as her supervisor’s.

“ _Natalie Moore, please come to Office 303 immediately._ ”

Cringing, Natalie looks at Aran, who isn’t looking back. “I won’t be long,” she promises. “I’ll send someone to get you some water, and something sugary. Please, _please_ just sit down for a minute. Nobody’s going to make you go if you don’t want to.”

Aran’s shoulders slump, and they allow themselves to be helped back into the chair, clearly begrudgingly. Natalie can’t help but to worry - is the poor thing mentally ill, or were they drugged? They can’t think about it long, however, leaving the room, looking back for only a moment, their brow pinched as they see Aran slumped against the desk.

-

How did they _get_ here?

Aran worries at the sleeve of their coat, then starts petting the soft fabric, trying to calm themselves. The last thing they remember, they think, is being at university, and passing out against the wall when they were trying to walk to class. And then they woke up here…

Here, the Healing Box Handover Office. They’d heard about this place enough to know _exactly_ what it was, and their stomach turns. They didn’t even _remember_ coming here, and they were _signing the documents,_ the same ones that would make them into a slave forever if they’d actually gone through with it. They bury their head in their coat, panting, trying not to hyperventilate, trying to reason with themselves. They’re not a system, so another person in their head guiding them is right out. Their coat’s too heavy to have been stabbed with a needle through it - that can’t be it, either. The only thing they have to go off of, they think, is the dreams.

 _God,_ the dreams. Aran curls their knees up to their chest, rocking in the chair, feeling sick. The dreams were worrying enough, they think, when they thought they were _just_ dreams. Now, peering over their knees at the torn-up documents, they aren’t so sure. For a second, they think about mind control, and they let out a nervous laugh, covering their mouth. God! Could you imagine! The government just allowing companies to mind control the population!

Aran is nearly sick, then, leaning over the desk. It doesn’t even sound that farfetched, they realize. But it can’t _possibly_ be true.

The door opens, and they jump, nearly standing from the chair as they uncurl.

“Mx. Aran?” a man asks. It’s not the woman from before, that’s for sure.

“Y-yes?” they croak, looking up at him wide-eyed, and all they receive is a laugh, warm, gentle. They think of Sandhya, just for a second.

“You’re free to go, if you’d like,” he says, and Aran staggers from their seat, relief in every line of their body. “No point keeping you here if you’re not interested, yes? But at least let me give you my card, in case you change your mind…”

Aran is about to argue, but before they can even open their mouth, the man’s card is in their hands. He smiles, waves, and then he’s gone, leaving the door open. Sighing, they look at the card, deciding they won’t get rid of it yet. Better to be polite, they think...

[ _Mr. Aster Hofmeister_ _  
_ _CPO, Healing Box Incorporated_   
aster.h@healingbox.ca]


End file.
